


Some Enchanted Evening

by cullenlovesmen



Series: Bi!Cullen fics [19]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Abusive home, All Souls' Day, Alternate Universe - Cinderella Fusion, Background Sebastian/f!Hawke, Costume Parties & Masquerades, Dancing, Don’t copy to another site, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fic or Treat 2019, Fluff, M/M, Male Cinderella, evil stepmother
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-27
Updated: 2019-10-27
Packaged: 2020-12-29 00:10:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21145523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cullenlovesmen/pseuds/cullenlovesmen
Summary: Prince Sebastian Vael arranges a ball in honour of All Soul's Day. Alistair Theirin, an exiled heir to Ferelden's throne, is invited along with the Guerrin family. Mistress Isolde, however, has decided Alistair mustn't attend, and goes out of her way to throw obstacles in Alistair's path. Little does she know true love cannot be stopped.





	Some Enchanted Evening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gremlinquisitor (suchanadorer)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/gifts).

> This is a Fic-or-Treat gift for the lovely [Gremlinquisitor.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/suchanadorer/pseuds/gremlinquisitor) I really hope you'll enjoy it. :)
> 
> Huge thanks to [Barbex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex/pseuds/barbex) for betaing this for me! You are amazing! <3

Dirt on the floor. 

Again. 

It was as though Alistair’s so-called family was doing this on purpose, and of course their efforts were especially vigorous on this day: the Prince of Starkhaven was holding a ball in remembrance of Andraste’s life. All Soul’s Day was a celebration of life in Starkhaven; the people dressed in masks and rejoiced the lives of those who had joined the Maker’s side. 

Alistair wasn’t expected to attend the ball, despite the invitation having been for every member of the household. Of course not. He was nothing but a lowly bastard, after all. It was clear, however, that aunt Isolde and uncle Eamon had found out a part of him wanted to go, and while they wouldn’t say he wasn’t allowed, the silent message was obvious. The rotting estate he tended to seemed especially dirty today. Isolde’s doing, no doubt.

Of course they wouldn’t want Alistair dreaming of something better than this -- even if it was only one night of mingling with people of his own age. 

Though that may not have been all there was to it. He’d seen the handsome Prince during his coronation ceremony a year ago, and now there were rumours the man was looking to marry -- and apparently it wouldn’t matter if his future spouse was a man or a woman. 

Although catching the Prince’s eye was certainly not on Alistair’s agenda. He had zero desire to sit on a throne: he could have travelled back to Ferelden if such fancies took hold in his mind -- and that would never happen. He shuddered at the thought alone. 

However, the man’s plan meant there would be plenty of unwed men and women in attendance, and he could only marry one of them, right? Perhaps there would be one who'd set their sights on Alistair? Besides, a night outside this miserable house? A dance with someone interesting, if he was lucky? A break from the bleak circumstances that characterised his life? All of that would be welcome -- if not sorely needed.

“Ze Mabari shat on ze floor again. Take care of it, Alistair.” 

He flinched at Isolde’s tone - he hadn’t seen her coming - but nodded. He couldn’t blame Decimus for his accidents; the poor beast was neglected. Alistair had meant to walk him in the morning, but the housework had piled on, one thing after another, and clearly Connor was too busy with his evening preparations to mind the dog’s needs. And why should the young man bother? Alistair would take care of Decimus, just like he took care of everything else around here. 

One day Alistair would leave this horrible house for good. He’d resolved to apply for the city guard once they began recruiting again -- but until then, he had no choice but be a servant for the Guerrin family. Unless he wanted to call the streets of Starkhaven his home. 

Isolde drifted away without another word, leaving Alistair kneeling on the floor, rag in hand. Why was he even dreaming of going to the ball? Isolde, with Eamon’s quiet acceptance and Connor’s self-absorbed indifference, would make sure Alistair would have no chance to mend his evening attire in time. If it even fit anymore. 

* * *

The stable boy turned out to have a night off - Alistair could stake his life on this being another one of Isolde’s schemes - and Alistair had to fill in for his role. He readied the horse and its carriage for Isolde, Connor, and Eamon, and rushed back inside as soon as the trio were out of sight. It was a hopeless cause - it was not as if he’d had the chance to check on whether or not the sole evening clothes he owned still fit him. But perhaps the Maker would grant a miracle for just one night. Was that too much to ask? 

The jacket was frayed around the edges, its deep black colour greyed by time; the trousers ill-fitting, but passable. What could he use for a mask? There was nothing at hand. He ran around the empty house, Decimus at his heel, looking for something - anything - suitable for a masquerade ball. 

There was nothing. 

Ugh. Isolde had won this round and that was all there was to it. He slipped outside; perhaps the crisp Matrinalis air would soothe his anger before he broke something. Decimus sat quietly on the pavement as Alistair bit the inside of his cheek, vigorously brushing soil from the steps leading to the front door. 

A voice broke through his dark musings; “Alistair Theirin?” 

Behind him stood an old crone, her frail body enveloped in a crimson cloak, a wooden staff fixed to her back. Alistair flinched as though he'd been hit; no-one was supposed to know his real surname. “Yes?”

“You ought to be at the ball tonight.” Her silvery brow arched as if in question, though her tone suggested it wasn’t one. 

“Well, tough luck, serah,” Alistair retorted before he could think better of it, anger sneaking past his reservations. “I have nothing to wear and no horse to take me.”

“Yes, I have understood as much,” she frowned, “but perhaps I may offer my aid in getting you there?” 

How could she know Alistair had no clothes? How had she known his name? A terrible thought struck him right then; perhaps this was a demon hoping to prey on him. But would a desire demon choose such a form to address him and propose to him smack in middle of a street? And he was no mage. Could demons even tempt a warrior -- and an almost-templar one, at that? “I’m listening,” he muttered, crossing his arms. 

The offer was simple; the witch would put a temporary spell on him, transforming his clothes to the most beautiful finery Thedas had ever seen, Decimus to a noble steed, and the dirty brush in his hand to a velvet mask befitting his features. All Alistair needed to care for was to leave before the candles representing Andraste’s pyre were lit; the charm would wear off exactly that moment. It went unsaid that failure to leave on time would lead to his deception being exposed.

He shuddered at the thought of Isolde catching sight of him.

“And what do you want in return?” There was always a catch. Alistair wasn’t born yesterday.

“There may come a time when I will be in need a favour,” the crone cast him a devious smile, “but it shall be in proportion to this small one. It shan’t be anything you ought to trouble yourself with.”

He should have declined such an offer. When was there ever a free lunch, especially for a man like him? People changed the moment they discovered his true identity -- and people always wanted something. Good things didn’t just happen -- but a part of him yearned to take a chance. Perhaps he was overdue for a miracle? He’d given so much thought to the ball; the elegant men and women swirling on the dance floor, the laughter and the small talk, the long tables filled with fancy dishes… his mouth watered at the thought alone. It had been months since he’d been allowed outside the house; walking on the creaky floor and staring at the water-damaged walls made him sick to his core. 

“Fine.” 

The crone lead him and Decimus to the backyard and charged her staff. A blink, and his attire transformed: dark blue satin hugged his legs, a trail of diamonds reached from his shoulders to the waist of his tailcoat, and the brush in his hand turned to a matching mask with navy feathers and sapphire linings around the eyes. Another blink, and Decimus grew tall and imposing, his grey fur darkening to the deepest black of midnight. 

Alistair turned to thank the crone, but she was already gone. His stomach rolled with unease, but it was too late to change his mind -- he may as well enjoy the evening while it lasted. He hopped onto Decimus’s back and rode on, steering his steed toward the Prince’s castle.

* * *

The evening was darkening, the last rays of the sun glimmering at the horizon; the sky above painted pink and orange. The flickering lights of carved pumpkins illuminated the path to the Castle’s entrance, where a young footman awaited and took Decimus from Alistair, bowing deeply. Well! That was certainly something new… and rather awkward. Alistair hastened to the large wooden doors engraved with Starkhaven’s royal insignia, where an aged butler with kind eyes inquired for his name. 

Right! A name. The Guerrin family had been invited, and as much as it irked him to identify with that lot… “Alistair Guerrin,” he mumbled, pushing the words past the tightness in his throat. 

The butler merely looked at his list and drew a line on the parchment. “The rest of the Guerrins are already here. You may join your family inside.”

Family! Hah! 

A warm gust rushed to his face from the hall, bringing a mixture of scents: food, perfume, and spices. The white walls were covered with red velvet hanging from the ceiling and falling to the floor in luxurious folds, each of them bearing Starkhaven’s heraldry. The floor was fine marble; it was almost a pity to walk on such decorated tiles and marr them with dirt; the poor servants would be much occupied the following day. Guests lingered in small groups, fantastically dressed and elegant, talking and laughing amongst themselves. There was such ease to their airs, such refined confidence; they belonged here; the crystal glasses they held were made for their smooth hands.

Alistair stole a glance at his work-hardened palms. What exactly was he doing here? 

Had he expected to belong in this crowd? He’d never belonged anywhere, and no fancy clothes draping his body could make him any less of an outsider. And yet, here he was. He shuffled past the groups, following his nose to the buffet tables next to a large room from where string music drifted to his ears. He may as well get his stomach full. That was something, at least, even if the night would turn out less fruitful on social aspects. 

The variety of dishes was staggering: one table was reserved for fish foods alone, while the two others held meats, vegetables, cheese, and snacks he’d never before seen in his life. He stacked a bit of everything on his plate until nothing more fit, and frowned at the dishes he had to leave out for now. Perhaps later, if his stomach still had the space. 

He ate and ate, closing his eyes at the taste, barely resisting the urge to moan at the flavours: they were unlike anything he normally had access to. The chatter of guests died down for a moment, and Alistair peeked through the doorway into the room where the music had come from -- the dancing was about to begin! He forgot about the crunchy delight of the fish pie’s crust for a moment as pairs of people assembled at the centre of the ballroom. 

Amidst the others stood the Prince with his dance partner; a fair woman with blonde hair done in intricate braids that cascaded to her lower back, her slender form wrapped in a silver gown with fabric for miles. The ruler had a golden mask covering his face, but it was him for certain -- everyone’s eyes rested on him, but the man seemed to notice none but the lady before him. He bowed deeply, and she curtsied in response before offering her hand for the Prince to take. 

The first notes of a waltz filled the air, and, as if on wordless agreement, the pairs begun to dance in a slow, deliberate circle around the room, all of them gliding as though in one fluid movement. 

Maker’s breath! What had possessed him to think he could do that? He’d never attended a ball before, nor had he danced with a partner. There were so many rules to know! He’d be swept off-balance and trampled by the multitude of agile feet -- perhaps even choked to an early grave by the glittering dresses. 

His noble (so-called) family had deemed it unnecessary to teach him the art of dancing, and up until this moment he had agreed, but… wouldn’t it be wonderful to put his arms around a lovely lady - or a handsome man - and twirl together as though in a fairy tale? Of course the Chantry hadn’t rectified the oversight of his... family, for what was the use of dancing templars? 

Well, so much for that! There was no way he’d embarrass himself in the Prince’s castle of all places. He would have to train his moves elsewhere, where none could judge his too-long limbs and clumsy body. But for now, he could watch the others. The crust broke pleasantly in his mouth, and he licked the remaining crumbs from his lips. His brows furrowed as his fingers found nothing more to grab at: the plate was empty. 

After leaving it in the hands of a servant, he found a place at the corner of the ballroom, by a lone table bearing another carved pumpkin. Alistair Theirin, on the outside looking in -- as it always was. The thought was less depressing than he’d expected, what with a full stomach and a glass of half-drank red wine in one hand. The sounds of merriment and light conversations lifted the worst of his gloom. 

The waltz turned into another; a smooth transition between compositions that required no change of pace from the dancers. Round and round they went. Had anyone had ever collided with another on this floor? It seemed unlikely, so well-oiled was the procession. The Prince’s partner let out a laugh - a piercing, bell-like sound - as rays of light bounced from her green gemstone necklace to the Prince’s grinning face. 

But where was Connor? Alistair had half-expected Isolde to pair the lad with some snotty noblewoman, and yet the young man was nowhere to be seen. It was alarming. He scanned the room for familiar costumes, but his gaze fell on a tall man instead. The man was staring right back at him, but tore his gaze away the instant their eyes met, and… hesitated? before visibly steeling himself and taking a few steps toward Alistair.

Maker’s breath! Had he already been found out? He bit his lip and inspected the sleeve of his diamond-studded tailcoat from the corner of his eye. The spell was still in place, so why..? 

The man had paused near the dancing area and rubbed the back of his neck. His uniform was crimson red, impeccable with two lines of golden buttons and similarly shiny lapels. A medal of honour clung from his chest, its shade of blue matching the simple mask he wore -- Alistair was certain it concealed a handsome face, if the sculpted jawline was any indicator.

Heat blossomed on his cheeks at the thought just as the man seemed to make a decision and strode the rest of the way toward him.

“It is a.. that is, is it not a,” the man stumbled with his words, visibly kicking himself, “a lovely night? For a dance?” 

Dread melted out of Alistair as the man swallowed. Was it possible this guest was even more awkward than he was? “Yes, uhh, I suppose so.” 

The man nodded stiffly, jaw working as he looked to the side, sucking on his lower lip as his mind worked. “Or a drink?” 

Oh! Had that been an invitation to dance? Alistair winced; he had never been good at taking a hint. Such was the fate of a man locked in a house for years on end, and the templar trainee pariah whose jokes always missed the point. This, however, he recognised for what it was. He downed the rest of his wine in one long gulp, smirking at the stranger. “Definitely a good night for a drink.”

The man let out a nervous laugh and nodded, picking the empty glass from Alistair’s hand -- and their fingers brushed. A hot jolt ran through Alistair’s body, all the way from the tips of his fingers to the ends of his curling toes, a heap of it packing to his already glowing cheeks. 

“I, uhh,” the man began, and cast a helpless look at the doorway, “shall return shortly.”

As Alistair watched the back of the stranger recede, a vague sense of recognition ran through him. The way he’d spoken reminded Alistair of home. But what home? It made no sense. And yet, there was something familiar in the way the man held himself, too; a certain confidence to him, though clearly said confidence didn’t extend to his manners. 

Ah, but he didn’t know anyone in Starkhaven. Ten years living here, and he knew no-one at all. The Guerrins were little more than social pariahs ever since relocating here. Loghain’s decision to exile them along with Alistair - the unwanted heir to Ferelden’s throne - had driven them to shame and relative poverty. They lived off on what remained of Eamon’s riches, stretching every copper to uphold an illusion of a noble lifestyle. It was only skin-deep, however; any visitor to the estate would see their finances were in shambles, so none were ever invited over for tea. Isolde escorted Connor to every party they were welcomed to, hoping the teenager would marry to a better life, his future union perhaps elevating herself and Eamon back to being full members of nobility. There was only a cook and a stable boy in the payroll. All other housework fell for Alistair to do -- a fitting punishment and an ongoing settlement of debt, Isolde had called it.

Alistair couldn’t possibly know this masked stranger. It was merely a trick of the mind. The Maker knew how much he missed his former life -- and the one friend he’d left behind. 

The handsome stranger returned with two glasses of red wine, a shy tilt to his lips. Oh, but was he adorable! Alistair accepted the drink with a smile and motioned for the man to sit next to him. “Thank you,” he said, “and thank you for asking me to dance, too, but I don’t know how.”

The stranger’s brows peeked from underneath his mask.

Alistair nodded, taking a sip from his glass. Perhaps he’d better not explain. Tonight he was supposed to belong here with the rest of them, was he not? The silence, however, stretched between them, and a touch of warmth crept to his cheeks again. Something had to be said. “I am Fereldan, and I was never invited to parties like these when I was growing up.”

Well, there it was. Hadn’t he just resolved not to reveal himself for the fraud he was?

The man chuckled - a warm, good-natured sound - as he looked at Alistair. Amber eyes; gorgeous and warm in the soft candlelight, like honey. Fine, curved lips, and a scar climbing up to his cheek from one side; it bunched when the man smiled. It was hard not to notice just how handsome the stranger was. “I, uhh, can relate. I am Fereldan, too, but they taught me how to dance when I came to the Prince’s service.”

Ahh, that’s what it was! A Fereldan accent. No wonder the man seemed familiar. Alistair grabbed for the opening for a change of subject: “You are in the Prince’s service, messere?”

“A royal guard,” the man ducked his head shyly, fingering the glass in his hand. 

This was no nobleman, then. Relief flooded through Alistair and he grinned. “That is very impressive, I must say. How did you end up in Starkhaven? Are you the Prince’s personal guard?”

Something in the man’s posture stiffened, and Alistair instantly regretted whatever he’d said to cause such a reaction. “That is-- if you do not mind speaking of the past. I merely--”

The man waved a dismissive hand before taking a gulp of wine. “Not at all. I was a templar in Kirkwall. Then the Chantry exploded, and the Prince - a good friend of mine - asked for my aid in claiming his throne. I am one of his many personal guards, but tonight I am off duty.” 

Ahh, Kirkwall hadn’t been the easiest post to end up in, that much Alistair had gathered from the news that had reached even his ears. But he was off duty, hmm? That was an invitation to a lengthy conversation if Alistair had ever heard one, and he wasn’t about to let the opportunity slip through his fingers. The poor man, of course, had no idea how starved for company he had been since his templar training days -- but he would control himself. 

Maybe.

He flashed the man his most winning smile, feeling strangely confident, and spoke of whatever came to mind -- carefully avoiding the fact he was a royal bastard living in exile, of course.

* * *

Time flew on the wings of a raven that night, speeding through waltzes and announcements, both of their glasses all but forgotten on the table once the wine was out. Alistair hadn’t thought to seek out a refill, and neither had the masked stranger; so engrossed in the conversation were they. The Prince seemed similarly captivated by his company: he hadn’t swapped his dance partner once. The beautiful lady in his arms held his gaze all through the evening, and Alistair smiled as they drifted past. The woman knew her steps and twirls; such grace and joy was a pleasure to watch. 

Much to his surprise, Alistair realised he didn’t regret his inability to dance -- at least not now. There was a certain comfort to sticking to the sidelines, especially when the handsome stranger paid attention to every word falling from his mouth, be it an embarrassing ramble or a joke. Had he ever known such ease in the company of another? The conversation had never paused once it had begun -- the awkwardness was soon replaced by good-natured teasing; the stumbling with quick, fluid responses. It was natural -- and wasn’t that a shock!

The man was not a flirt, but the way he spoke suggested he would flirt if it was in his nature to do so -- and more than once, Alistair gave him such responses that the man flushed. 

The dancing, however, soon came to a halt, and the Prince announced it was time to pay respects to Andraste’s sacrifice. The stranger stood up and offered Alistair a hand, which he took, shaking all over. No, this was too soon! He wasn’t ready for the night to end just yet; couldn’t bear to lose the feeling of the man’s arm that had snaked around his back.

Alistair leant closer to the man, catching a whiff of subtle cologne as he whispered: “I am so sorry, but I really must take my leave now.”

The man turned to him, mouth turning downward, “But the festivities aren’t over yet. Do you not wish to stay for the dessert?”

The regret in the stranger’s tone matched Alistair’s own wretched despair, but alas. “I do, but I cannot. I am needed at home.” On impulse, he took hold of the man’s cheek and brought his lips to his, pressing softly at the smooth skin. The taste of him lingered still as Alistair murmured against the stranger's lips: “Thank you for a marvellous evening, messere royal guard.” 

It struck him he’d never asked for the man’s name - nor had the man inquired for his - but it was too late to rectify that now. His heart pounded as he turned away, and cast one more glance at his companion from behind his shoulder, letting the strength of his anguish show through his eyes. 

And then he ran. He rushed past groups of guests - most of them peeling off their masks - straight for the exit, sparing no glance at the buffet tables or the fine decor. He could almost feel the way his charmed clothing transformed back to the simple peasant’s attire he wore day in and day out -- but it wasn’t until he’d made it outside the mask on his head turned to a brush and fell off. The tailcoat took on the shape of the ragged shirt that had once been white, the dark pants were brown and patched once more, and he forced his steps even more.

“Decimus! Decimus!” he yelled, not slowing down or turning, lest the butler and the stable boy catch sight of him. 

The Mabari sprinted toward him from behind the castle, and someone yelped in surprise, but Alistair had no time to see which of the servants it was. Decimus settled to a trot alongside him, sparing him a worried glance, as if aware of the way Alistair’s heart ached. 

* * *

Alistair nursed a cup of hot tea in his hands, sitting in the small drawing room of the so-called estate. The house was quiet still; the first rays of sun filtered through the curtains, heralding a new day. The cook - Irene - was hard at work preparing breakfast, and had taken pity on him and made some tea. 

It had been two days since the enchanted evening, and somehow the magic still lingered in his heart; the shy smiles seemed permanently etched to his mind, and the feel of the man’s soft lips ghosted over his own whenever he closed his eyes and let himself dream. It was no use to think of him; hadn’t Alistair asked the Maker for a miracle for one night? His wish had been granted.

And yet… he was greedy. He couldn’t stop.

Did the royal guards have anything to do with city guards? Perhaps - if he was lucky - he’d be recruited and he’d meet the stranger again. Perhaps something more could come out of their acquaintanceship, given time? Shaking his head at such fanciful thoughts, he emptied his cup and returned it to Irene, setting off to do the laundry. Isolde would be up soon, and it would not do to be caught idle before her eyes. He picked up a brush and withdrew to the laundry room, dark thoughts mixing with the pleasant memories from the Prince’s ball. 

He was just about finished with the task when Irene peeked through the doorway. “Alistair, mistress Isolde wants you to serve her guest some tea and biscuits.” 

A visitor? Well, that had certainly never happened before. Who could it be? Alistair dried his hands and joined the cook in the kitchen, taking hold of the tray as she loaded it with three cups of tea and a bowl of biscuits. Schooling his expression to one of indifference, he pushed through the door and entered the drawing room, taking care to keep his gaze lowered until he set the tray on the table -- he had dropped it many a time, and to stumble before Isolde’s guest would surely lead to a storm of insults he cared not to inspire. 

Next to the tray was a brush. Was that.. his brush?

“Messere Guerrin, I thought you said there were no more young men in your household aside from your son.”

Isolde’s protests fell to deaf ears as Alistair’s eyes snapped to the source of that familiar voice. He met a handsome face belonging to a man in a guard’s armour, bearing the royal insignia on his tabard. This could not be..! But the man’s eyes were the colour of honey, the hue unmistakable, and the smile that grew on his lips bunched up a scar reaching for his cheek -- and Alistair’s heart skipped a beat. 

Isolde tried dismissing him, but Alistair couldn’t - and wouldn’t! - heed her orders now; not when those eyes were fixed on him; not when the sole good thing in his recent years was here.

He had known the man would be beautiful beneath his mask, but reality exceeded his dreams. The man’s golden hair curled in gorgeous loops around his face, his countenance lit up by the strange smile on his lips. His shoulders were wide, his posture upright, and now that Alistair thought about it… Was it possible he was not only the man from the ball, but something… someone… 

“Alistair? Maker’s breath -- is it you?” 

Alistair jerked to the present from his thoughts, his eyes widening. Could it really be-- “C-cullen?”

The man stood up at once, pulling Alistair into an embrace, his hand rising to the back of Alistair’s neck and fingers sinking into his air. Alistair couldn’t breathe -- could hardly believe this was happening. How could the sole friend from his childhood reappear in such a manner -- and in Starkhaven, of all places? Cullen had been the only person he’d liked in the Chantry, the only one who would laugh at Alistair’s jokes -- and the only person he’d missed once he’d been exiled. It had been a decade, and yet he would know the feel of these arms from anywhere. 

Time stopped as they held each other as though letting go would break the fantasy. Alistair had dreamt of this moment; thought up the perfect words to say, but now that this was happening, he was speechless. Cullen’s breath tickled his neck as the man whispered: “Are you happy here?” 

Alistair shook his head in response. 

“Would you like to come with me?”

Alistair breathed in the scent of the man, his knees wobbly. What a question. What a stupid, stupid question. He nodded vigorously.

That was all it took for Cullen to extricate from the hug and face Isolde and Connor, who both stared at them in shock. “Messere, it is by the Prince’s order I must escort this man to the castle at once; His Highness wishes to recruit him for the guards. You will be fairly compensated for the loss of your workforce.”

“Zis cannot be true!” Isolde exclaimed, her voice shrill and hollow, “Alistair was much too busy at home to attend ze ball zat night!”

“Messere, I must protest,” Cullen closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, tone betraying some annoyance, “for I spent the evening in his company and would not mistake him for another.” He slid his gaze back to Alistair, voice softening: “Alistair, there is a room at the castle prepared for you -- and work,” Cullen leant closer to whisper, “if you want it. I am sure you still remember how to wield a sword.” 

Alistair couldn’t help it; laughter bubbled up from his chest at the unintended double entendre. Cullen’s cheeks reddened at once, and he cleared his throat, darting a coy look from behind his brows. “That’s not… Please, can you gather your belongings so we may go?”

Alistair sobered up. “I have nothing--” Oh, but that was not entirely true, was it? He whistled, and Decimus ran to his side in a flash. “I have everything I need now.”

Cullen bit his lower lip, but it did little to conceal the beaming smile that took over his face. He nodded, grabbed a hold of Alistair’s work-toughened hand and pressed a delicate kiss to his knuckles. Out of breath and shaken, Alistair lead them through the door, sparing no mind to Isolde’s loud objections. 

Cullen pulled Alistair to a halt at the stairs, and leaned in for a slow, tender kiss. As they pulled apart, he cast Alistair a meaningful gaze. “As do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> Did Alistair become a guard? Did he learn how to dance with Cullen's help? Did Sebastian marry his lovely dance partner? What did the witch want in return, and who was she, anyway? 
> 
> Let me know what you thought! As always, feedback makes me smile, so if you liked this fic, please consider leaving a kudos and/or a comment. :)


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